


sides of the same coin

by lokh



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5891323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokh/pseuds/lokh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>gymnophoria - the sensation of being mentally undressed. apodyopis - mentally undressing someone. together, they make the wreck that is called azumane asahi, the catalyst of his reactions being the singular kageyama tobio (who really needs to fix his staring habit).</p>
            </blockquote>





	sides of the same coin

**Author's Note:**

> for a tumblr drabble meme! 
> 
> also i hc kageyama as pan demiromo demisexual. so

Kageyama stares.

One would think that Asahi would be used to it by now, having been on the same team as him for almost half a year now, but this is, after all, Asahi, and also, the intensity of Kageyama’s stare seems to be increasing exponentially with every second more he looks at him. By this point in time, Kageyama has probably accumulated a total of at least two and a half hour’s staring time. (Not that Asahi is counting.)

What had he ever done to deserve this? Had he somehow done something _wrong_ to him? In all honesty, Asahi had spent _way_ too much time in the past month trying to think of anything he could have possibly done wrong. Then he realized that this was _Kageyama Tobio_ they were talking about _,_ and it’s quite possible he’d done something that he himself wouldn’t think to call ‘wrong’.

Noya would just tell him that he’s being paranoid. At least, that’s what he _would_ have told him, had it not been him and Tanaka to point it out for him.

“Are you _sure_ you didn’t do anything wrong?” Noya whispers, over the edge of the volleyball in his hands. Tanaka spins one on his finger absentmindedly behind him, cursing when he fumbles. “Like, this is downright _weird,_ even for him. Maybe you snubbed one of his serves?”

“For the last time, Nishinoya, I didn’t.” Hopefully. “And it’s been _weeks_. I don’t think he’d do this over something as little as that.”

Kageyama is still staring at this very moment. His grip on the ball in his hands is so tight that Asahi is half sure it’s going to explode before _he_ does. Tanaka’s eyes drift over as unsuspiciously as possible (which is, not at all) – Kageyama’s eyes don’t waver at all.

Noya sneaks closer to Tanaka, peeking at Kageyama from the corner of his eye. If he hadn’t realized he was being watched, he sure knows now, the second years all but trying to access the secrets of his mind through sheer willpower alone. Still, Kageyama doesn’t budge, and it is quite possible that Kageyama has placed a doppelganger of himself in the gym to stare at Asahi whenever he can’t. There’s no other explanation, Asahi thinks. He’s not sure if he’s even _breathing_.

Asahi takes a deep breath. Then he turns to look, too.

It takes every ounce of courage in his glass heart to stop him from looking away immediately. Kageyama is _still_ staring, and now he definitely can’t pretend that he was just staring at a point conveniently placed next to Asahi’s right shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, looking like he barely realizes that Asahi has caught him looking (or maybe he just doesn’t care).

Something about his stare makes him feel… _uncomfortable_. Asahi has had a _lot_ of time to try and sort out what exactly his stare makes him feel, but the only word he can think of is uncomfortable. Restless, maybe. Like he’s setting all his pores on fire and if he doesn’t move, he’ll be burned alive, flames consuming him whole and setting his blood alight. But Asahi never moves. Blue eyes keep him pinned in place, as though making note of every single movement he makes and exactly why he’s doing it.

Asahi has had a lot of people stare at him over the years. (Usually because they think he’s stolen something or that he’s a delinquent.) Fleeting glances from the corners of their eyes, shifting and fearful. Head on stares, lips curled in challenge and bodies itching for a fight. The way Kageyama looks at him is nothing like that.

He doesn’t look at him looking for a fight, the way that Hinata sometimes does, threatening to rip his position from right beneath his feet. He doesn’t look at him with the exasperation that Suga sometimes does, fond and miffed all at the same time. He doesn’t look at him like he’s a threat, like he’s a bother, like he’s done something wrong, _nothing_.

It’s confusing.

Asahi can’t read his stare, now or every time before. Dark eyes, staring at him, looking him in the eye and around his face when he’s not looking. Shifting here and there, like he’s looking for something hidden between the planes of his nose and cheeks.

Then his eyes trail _down_.

Asahi manages to keep staring at him for a few more seconds. That’s a few more seconds than he was able to hold it the _last_ few dozen times.

There’s no way Kageyama is doing it on purpose, he knows. He’s never seen him look at _anyone_ that way – the closest he’s ever done it is the way he looks when they get a particularly good point off his serve, which also says a lot about how much he cares about that sort of thing. He knows he doesn’t mean to follow every fold and make it seem like he knows exactly where skin ends and the barrier of fabric begins, obscuring and confounding.

He knows he doesn’t mean to stare at the places where the white of his shirt begins to thin and stick, revealing wet flesh and seeing the parts of him that he’d never see otherwise. He knows he doesn’t mean to stare at the hem of his shirt when it rides up, above his waistband and creasing along the lines of his hips, as though he’s willing them to ride up even further.

He knows he doesn’t mean to keep trailing down, making Asahi feel self-conscious about the drops of sweat crawling down his thighs or the purple of his knees whenever he forgets his kneepads. He knows he doesn’t mean to look at his ankles and make even _that_ seem like a sin, filing away each edge and angle.

He knows he doesn’t mean to.

It doesn’t make it feel any less _obscene_.

Like he’s undressing him with his gaze, following the slope of his neck and his shoulders and his back and his, well. Everything, really, from the loose strands escaping his hairband to the laces beginning to come apart at his feet. Every crevice, every muscle, every vein – it’s as if he _knows_ them, like he’s seen them all beneath the clothes and the layers and recreates it in his eyes every time he looks at him.

Asahi shivers, despite himself.

He _knows_ , and it just makes him feel all the more guilty for looking _back_.

It doesn’t help that Kageyama still doesn’t look away, even when Asahi has started staring back at him, started memorizing every mark and blemish. Even from this distance, he can make out the thickness of his lashes, curling over his cheek and hidden beneath his hair. His jaw is smooth, clean-shaven, lines straight but corners softly rounded, standing out all the more against the sharpness of his eyes.

Long arms, wide sloping shoulders, chest thin and waist thinner – together, proportionate and balanced, but hardly the standard fitting mass-produced clothes. The tightness of the collar makes his neck that much longer, wrinkles gathering at the too-small shoulders and sleeves ending several inches above his elbows. Kageyama sweats just as much as Asahi does, but the damp fabric doesn’t confess as much as it does on Asahi. His skin is warm and tan, but not as dark as him; the fabric drapes wetly along his collarbone, caramel melting into pale gold.

His shirt is too wide around his chest, but too short for his torso. Its length reveals the soft of his stomach, the firm of muscle evident along his navel. It’s worrying, though, how his skin seems stretched over his bones – how prominent are his ribs beneath his shirt?

And he’s walking into dangerous territory, he knows, like staring at a deer unaware. By this point, Asahi usually stops, because, well, that’s just plain creepy. Plus, not everyone in the gym is as oblivious as Kageyama (though the only reason they haven’t yet noticed is because Asahi himself can’t work up the courage to get past this point). But Kageyama’s eyes still haven’t wandered, still focused on _him_ , and something makes Asahi not want to look away first.

Like this, unmoving, it’s easier to see where the fabric hangs upon air and slides off the surface of his skin. His hips aren’t much wider than his waist, but his hipbones are sharp and eye-catching, disappearing beneath his shorts, and just how much sharper would they feel against the flesh of his palms and fingers, skin to skin?

The dip of his back is deep and curved into an elegant arch, and Asahi wonders what the unbroken line of his spine would look, that hidden space beneath a wall of cotton. Would his shoulder blades jut out as proudly as his collarbones, dancing with every movement he makes? Is the surface of his skin there slippery with sweat, unbearably hot and paled in the shade? Freckles, light across his back – Asahi can see them almost as well as if he hadn’t been wearing a shirt at all. They dot his upper arm and disappear beneath his sleeves, disappearing around his neck.

And Asahi is starting to realize – maybe he _wants_ to know, what his skin is like beneath his clothes, how his figure looks without folds obstructing it. He wants to know the lightness of his wrists in his grip, the heaviness of his hips against his. He wants to know the suppleness of his thighs, the curves of his winding landscape. He _wants_ to know, and he doesn’t know when he started wanting to.

Then Kageyama looks _away_.

Tanaka’s jaw drops open, cracking audibly as they fall. Nishinoya drops the ball.

“Holy shit,” Tanaka breathes, eyes wide in awe. “I didn’t know you had ESP, Asahi-san!”

“Uh,” Asahi essays, eloquently. His brain had been called in on an emergency, and is attempting to prevent a coronary. It’s failing.

Noya looks up at him and stares. He may have been more bothered by the realization dawning in his eyes, had he been in a more lucid state of mind, and also not anticipating his very immediate death. He _knew_ he should have written out his will in advance.

“You know,” Nishinoya starts, and Asahi jumps. “He’s heading over here, y’know.”

“We’ll hold a beautiful funeral service,” Tanaka assures, picking up the volleyball the libero dropped. “With your favourite flowers and everything. In loving memory.”

“We’ll pick you a really cool suit!”

“And make sure they don’t shave your beard.”

Asahi would respond – really, he would, but they’re already skittering off and leaving him for dead, and Kageyama really _is_ heading over here, oh _god_ , that is the angriest Asahi has ever seen him in all these months of staring. Had he realized why Asahi was staring back? Was he – was he _offended_? Was he hurt, or betrayed, never having thought that his _senpai_ would see him that way? Or had he actually been staring because Asahi _had_ done something wrong, and was now going to enact his revenge? _Was he going to kill him?_

Kageyama stops abruptly, barely a foot away. Asahi straightens up, screws his eyes shut, and says his prayers. He opens his mouth.

“I’m sorry–”

“Please go out with me, Asahi-san!”

Silence. Except for the implosion inside Asahi’s skull.

There’s muttering – probably Suga doing damage control. A ball rolls across the gym floor – then another, and another. Asahi is half-wishing that enough balls will roll down to wash him away, but alas – Daichi and Suga are too good at handling the team, and easily get them to go back to practice within minutes.

Kageyama is still staring, but it’s different, this time.

This time, Asahi can see his cheeks tainted red.

“I thought you hated me,” Asahi blurts, before he can stop himself. Only so much stress can pile up before it pops out, and Kageyama looks both crestfallen and affronted at the same time.

“Why would I hate you?”

“You’ve been staring a lot. I thought you were angry at me or something.”

Kageyama scowls. Maybe that’s his way of frowning. “I was… I was trying to figure out what I felt about you. It was confusing. I felt funny every time I looked at you, so I thought if I looked long enough, I’d know what it was.”

Butterfly wings begin beating against the frail glass of his heart, and Asahi tries his best to breathe evenly and slowly.

“And you think – you _like_ me?”

His face is resolute, words brooking no doubt or argument.

“I _do_ like you.”

His eyes are wide, trembling even in their intensity. Shifting, searching – his gaze strips his defences and leaves him breathless and naked. His cheeks are still warm, but he’s not cowering, shoulders raised defiantly atop curled fists.

Kageyama stares.

Asahi finally stares back.

“I like you too.”


End file.
